Moving Apart

She woke up early. Her son was coming this evening. She allowed herself to soak in the eager anticipation, but ignored the tightness that was also there. A feeling akin to dread that she wouldn’t acknowledge much less allow herself to label.

She conjured up memories of him as a child. He was so calm, so happy. Social and adorable, he was never lacked for willing babysitters. Even on crowded train rides, he’d win over other passengers, and they wouldn’t notice the extra space he and his mother were taking up. The family had said he had his father’s smarts. That annoyed her: did she not also have a claim?

But children grow up and become their own people. They don’t need to hold your hand walking through crowded markets. They stop cuddling up to you to fall asleep. They stop doing things that you expect.

Even when they do the things you expect, it doesn’t quite turn out the way you had imagined. In college, she had admired the rich girls, the ones that spoke fast, comfortable English. The ones that had ideas of what the world was like, and their place in it. They moved with such confidence; something entirely foreign to her in the alien world she found herself in.

Her son, raised in a different country, certainly spoke fast English. He also had ideas about the world and his place in it. But, none of it made any sense to her. Take how he felt about his job. This was his first after college. He’d only had it for a couple of years, but already he was so unhappy with it. He talked of quitting all the time. She couldn’t understand why. She’d gone to the visit last fall for family day, and the company was full of bright young people who seemed to be doing so well. The job was stable and already paid more than her high school teaching job. She just hoped he’d settle down a bit; not do anything too hasty.

Her thoughts returned to the present. She checked the time, and hurried out of bed. She needed to tidy the place, and she wanted to make that curry that he likes so much. And really should just make posto – a sesame potato mix – too. And maybe that pineapple raisin dessert too she thought. She remembered he was coming to help her move from the small one bedroom apartment to another, similar place a couple of hours away. But she didn’t have time to think of that now. It would get done. Her mind turned to the recipes for each of those dishes.

She heard the car pull up just as the rice was finishing up her cooking and cleaning. She felt proud of what she’d gotten done that day. She ran to open the door for him in welcome.

“Hey mom!” he said dropping his bag on the floor and giving her a hug. “Oh that smells good!”

“I made your favorite chicken curry! And posto!” she said. “Wash up, and sit. It’s all ready.”

“Yes!” He took in the apartment while he walked over to the bathroom, and she noticed a puzzled look come over his face.

“Mom, you haven’t packed anything” he paused looking around,“where are the boxes?”

What did that matter at this moment, she thought. “Wash up quickly - it’ll all get cold,”she said. He gave her a quizzical look, and went into the bathroom.

He ate quickly and with obvious enjoyment. “This is so good mom,” he said, “I can never get it to come out like this. I try to follow your recipe exactly, but it always ends up tasting a little off.”

“You just need to practice, you’ll get it.”

“It’s all in that adjustment you make when you taste it right toward the end. Your recipe doesn’t say anything about that.”

“Well, that part is a little different every time.”

“I try to do it, but even I notice something off when I taste test it, I never can tell what is missing.”

“That’s the practice,” she said again clearing off the plates.

“Mom, let me do that –”

“No sit and rest. You must be tired from the drive.” she insisted. Why was he so eager to replace her she wondered. She was glad that she still needed her at least for the curry.

“Mom, we need to talk through a plan for tomorrow.”

Oh, the move again, she thought. “I just have a few things.” she said.

“It all adds up mom! I thought you’d have started by now.” he sounded annoyed to her. “And do you want to keep all this stuff? You should go through and throw out the stuff you don’t want anymore.”

“How is that nice girl I met at your company day?”

“Mom! Focus!”

“I just have a few things,” she repeated.

“Ok tomorrow, we need to go to the store and pick up things,” he started jotting a list while he thought, “boxes, tape, and stickers, “ he paused. “Do you know where the scissors are? Because if not, we probably need to get some of those too.”

“I think we have some tape and scissors somewhere,” she said. “And maybe we can swing by a couple of grocery stores. They are always throwing away boxes.” She ignored the stickers. “What did he want to get sticker for?” she wondered.

“Grocery stores?”

“Yes, there’s a Trader Joe’s and a Food Lion we can try.”

“Mom, are you serious? We don’t have time to go scrounging for boxes,” he said. “We’re going to need all the time we can get to pack things and throw stuff out.”

“Throw what out?” she said looking around. She just had a few things. This would all get done tomorrow, she thought.

Then, mostly to himself he continued “We probably need five or six small ones for the books, another five or six medium ones for all the random stuff and the kitchen stuff, and some large ones for pillows and blankets. Oh, and maybe a wardrobe for the clothes.” Turning back to her, “we’re never going to find all those boxes at a grocery store mom. We should just go and buy some from WalMart.

“It’s not good to waste money,” she said, “let’s see what we can find and if we need, we can buy others.” She found it shocking how her kids spent money. He spent over five hundred dollars on eating out every month he had said once. She remembered the hard days when they had just come to the country. She could feed the whole family for a couple of hundred dollars. Five hundred was scandalous.

“Mom, our time is valuable too. I don’t want to waste it foraging for grocery store boxes which aren’t meant for moving.”

“Boxes are boxes.”

“They really aren’t. You can reuse moving boxes. They are sturdier and come in standard sizes that are easy to stack.” She felt tired all of a sudden. It had been a long day. “Mom, look for the scissors and tape now, so we know if we’ll need it tomorrow or not.”

“I can look tomorrow. I feel tired now.”

“C’mon mom? I’m trying to help you with your move. Don’t be so difficult. Tomorrow is going to be a long day already.”

He was full of energy about the dumbest things at the oddest times - just like his father. How tedious this all was, she thought.

“I’m guessing you don’t have stickers,” he finished.

The stickers again. “What do we need stickers for?” she said and felt exasperated now.

“To mark off where boxes go, and what’s in it.”

“Can’t you just write with a marker?”

“Good point, we need a marker too,” he scribbled onto his list. “You write on the stickers so you don’t have to search all over the box to find the writing that tells you where to put it or what’s in it. It helps the movers do their work quickly.”

“Movers?”

“What do you mean movers?” his eyes grew big, “Mom, please tell me you booked a truck and movers – who is going to move the boxes and furniture?”

This question confused her. “I thought you came to help me move?” she said.